in Mariupol, at nine
america sleeps, and there is blood in Ukraine.
three peaceful people dead.
the reporter emphasizes peaceful
peace, full of it, a bounty, all of it.
all the peace in three unmarked faces, gone.
i imagine hands up, brave voices,
gone in blinks, blind aggression.
a reporter later adds, a child too, gone.
thirty minutes after, Kyiv urges people
to protect mothers and children, city and land,
offering weapons, asking russians to protest
blood and lost bodies.
and so my tiktok feed dresses itself less in dumb dances with shaken images of Ukranian men in hiding, crouching from sirens and blasts, armed with heavy breathing with eyes behind their heads gasping for exits, looking for ways back to loving their families, but the only way out is to continue scrolling until i know nothing more about man and his need to prove power, that he is not small yet can throw tantrums because the world is unfair and thus the world must be punished.
can the monster speak?
can man swish awakenings in theories and think tanks before he grips hands into fists, before letting blood reach a boiling point of regret?
and so, the year counts its beginning in bodies, losing count as long minutes mull over in the fullness of peace in people, not peace itself, because the only way to get to regret is by way of losing everyone.
